


Rafters

by clightlee



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Apprentice has no pronouns, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:41:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24007522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clightlee/pseuds/clightlee
Summary: Muriel stops by to check on the recovering Apprentice, and an impromptu trip into Vesuvia ensues
Relationships: Apprentice/Muriel (The Arcana), Muriel (The Arcana)/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 76





	Rafters

You’re upstairs in the shop, singing off-key to the salamander, stirring a small cauldron of Second Sight potion when the bell at the front door chimes.

You mumble to the salamander to keep your potion simmering and pull your stained apron over your head as you pad down the stairs. “Can I help you?” you ask cheerfully, still struggling out of your apron. It’s stuck on your ear.

The presence in the shop doesn’t respond, but there’s definitely  _ someone _ there. Someone who fills the room. You can hear breath like the engines of springtime and are engulfed in the sweet, nostalgic scent of myrrh. 

“Sorry, I-” you finally jerk the apron off of your head and the words dry up on your tongue.

A huge man stands before you. Though he’s shrouded in a cloak of hides, the iron chains and pale scars that cover his body attract your gaze. His gaze burns green beneath shaggy black hair and from within a deep hood. But his eyes are the gentlest you’ve seen in a long time. This puts you at ease.

The stranger breaks the silence, though it looks like it pains him. “... Asra asked me to check on you,” he rumbles. 

You nod encouragingly. Asra has only started leaving you to tend the shop alone recently. Now that you’ve learned the principles of alchemy and can also add up prices, he’s begun heading off on overnight trips. He told you he’d be back in three days this time, and you’ve been trying to act like you don’t miss him like a piece of your heart. Besides Selasi, your baker friend, nobody in your neighborhood is especially friendly to you. It’s been lonely. 

So the fact that Asra asked this intimidating stranger, who also feels inexplicably safe, to look in on you is confusing but sweet.

“He won’t be back for a couple days,” you say conversationally. “Can I get you anything while you’re here? Tea?”

The stranger’s face flushes deeply and their eyes widen. “I… … should be going,” they mutter. “Now that I know you’re...” they narrow their eyes pensively: “...safe.”

You shrug. “I’ve not seen you around before, so you must have come a ways,” you reason with him. “At least rest before you take off again? It’s getting dark anyway.” You brighten. “Can I make you dinner?”

The stranger’s mouth hangs open just a little bit. He looks cornered. And hungry.

You smile reassuringly. You hope it’s reassuring. You haven’t had much of a chance to practice interacting with people other than Asra. “Just for a little bit.” Then your face falls. You completely forgot; all you have left is a heel of bread and some wrinkly apples. You gave the rest to a mother in need who came into the shop looking for a pain reliever for her sick child. That felt good, to be useful, but the food that’s left? Not exactly a feast fit for guests. Especially guests that look like their meals are few and far between.

  
  


That was why you set out to find food, the stranger shortening his stride beside you. You’d finally convinced him that it wouldn’t be safe for you to go alone, that it was in your best interest to go get food, otherwise you’d be hungry until Asra got back. You pat yourself on the mental back for this small piece of trickery. You’ve been working on subtleties of expression.

The stranger wants to stick to backstreets and shadows. You do, too, to avoid those sidelong looks of suspicion people like to hurl at you.

“I didn’t catch your name,” you remark from inside the deep folds of your own hooded cloak.

“Muriel,” he mutters. You get the impression he’s relieved that you manufactured a reason for him to eat, or to remain in your company, or both.

“What do you like to eat, Muriel?” you ask.

“Whatever,” he grumbles. 

“That’s not helpful, Muriel,” you point out. You think you see his massive shoulders rise and fall in a shrug beneath the furs. Your theory is confirmed by a muffled clink of chains. What an interesting aesthetic this man carries. You’ll remember to ask Asra about him.

Muriel betrays his preferences when you pass a fishmonger’s stall. The scent of fried fish and grilled eels wafts out at you and you see him, out of the corner of your eye, leaning towards the stall. His eyes flutter shut.

“I’m hungry for seafood,” you declare, a bit more loudly than usual. Muriel starts but you think that the glance he casts at you is grateful.

  
  


Once you’ve secured your food- a shockingly small bag of eels for Muriel, some fried searobins for you, and a bag of assorted shellfish and fried root vegetables to last you until Asra returns- you aren’t so sure you want to part ways with Muriel so soon. His presence is a comfort, like basking in the shade of an ancient tree. Like shade from the sun, shelter from the rain. He contains multitudes that you feel, even if he hasn’t said more than a handful of words.

You finish casting a quick smell-proofing spell on the bag of shellfish and slide it into your rucksack. “I’m not ready to go back to the shop yet,” you say, testing the waters. “Is there anything you want to do while you’re in town?”

You are almost positive that Muriel isn’t from town.

“No,” Muriel rejoiners, and starts walking back towards the shop.

You jog to catch him. “I want to thank you for checking in on me, though. And making sure I wasn’t mugged on my way to get food. And-”

“These are plenty.” He stops, gesturing to the box of eels in his hand. He’s holding them almost reverently. 

You shake your head, trying to tamp down disappointment and frustration. 

“I’m going to go out on a limb, okay? From your knowledge of alleyways and shortcuts, I assume that you used to live in Vesuvia. And you met Asra, yeah? But then something horrible happened to make you leave it behind, so now it’s entirely strange to you. Well,” you take a deep breath to clear the lonely tears from reaching your voice- “I left my memories behind, I guess. And sometimes Asra will tell me about something I loved, back before I lost them, but I don’t remember. All I know in this city is the shop and my street and that everything else is dangerous, that Asra won’t take me out for fear of...” you circle your hands in the air, not even sure what threats Asra seeks to keep you from. 

“So I think we could both use an… experience,” you finish weakly.

Muriel is looking into your eyes, scrutinizing. Finally, after a small eternity, he says, “Okay.” And takes off- heading East, you think?- towards the cultural district. 

You skip to keep up, dodging puddles and mounds of trash, until Muriel draws up short in front of a dingy back door. He pulls you into an alcove and your pulse thrills.

“Can you climb?” he asks.

You nod. You’re pretty sure you can climb.

“We’re going in that door, then heading up to the rafters.” His speech is so freed all of a sudden, like he’s reliving a script from the past. Like he knows the ending already, and it’s good.

You follow him through the door. A series of thick ropes hang down from catwalks above you, headed up to the rafters above. Without hesitation, Muriel leaps into the ropes, climbing swiftly and silently upwards. You tentatively grasp one and start shinning up after him. You try not to look down.

As you near when you hope is the top, your head starts to spin. You can;t remember ever being this high, and your breath is coming short. Just when one hand threatens to seize up, Muriel plucks you out of harm’s way with a strong arm slung around your waist. He plops you next to him on a rafter, and doesn’t meet your eyes. He’s perfunctorially setting out his eels for supper.

“Thank you,” you gasp in a whisper.

He shrugs again. Clank, clank. Then: “You’ll remember how… soon enough.”

You tuck into your delectable searobin, and peer down at the stage below you. The curtain is still closed, but you can hear the buzz of the audience like a hive of bees. You’re in the theater or, rather, above it; you’ve heard and read about the theater before. You just never thought you’d be able to go, let alone see it from far above.

“What play’s on?” You ask him, sneaking your glance sideways. He’s let his hood fall back and you’re thunderstruck by his profile. His eyes are shut as he savors the eel, a small smile playing on his features. He looks almost at peace, despite the scars and heavy collar of spikes he wears. You wish you could ask him everything. 

“Don’t know.” He turns to face you and you’re bathed in the green of his eyes. “...don’t much care.”

  
  
  


It was a farce, not exactly highbrow but it made you chortle nonetheless. The best part was hearing Muriel’s laugh, a deep subsonic boom as he tried to keep it bottled up. 

After sliding down the ropes, much easier than the ascent, you’ve made your way back to the shop in companionable silence. 

“Thank you, Muriel. I’ll never forget this,” you say, a bit bashfully, as you trace the unlocking spells on the shop’s door. The white light illuminates Muriel’s features, softened by an almost-smile. Almost of regret. You wonder why.

“I’m glad,” is all he says, and he fades into the night while you’re turning the doorknob.

You hurry up to the kitchen to put the fish in the icebox and tickle the salamander to life. A joke from the play is crossing your mind, what was it again? It slips your mind mid-laugh, and suddenly you remember the potion on the stove.

“Thanks, little buddy!” you cry, gratefully returning to the stove. Where had you been? Someone had come into the shop and- 

And-

You’d fallen asleep. That had to have been it. Thank heavens the salamander had kept your potion simmering safely. You stir, stir, stir, wondering at the blister on your palm, the tired but pleasant ache in your feet. Almost as if you’d been walking the streets in your dreams. 


End file.
